Believe It Or Not, I Have a Closet Full of High Heels

Yesterday I had an appointment to get my hair colored. I’d decided it was getting too blonde in the front. But then–in a mode typical of how I’ve been operating lately–by the time I was sitting in the seat at the salon, I decided the color looked fabulous.

So I asked her if she could just give me a trim.

As she’s cutting she’s asking me about whether I need any more shampoo or anything and I say something about Tigi products. But instead of saying Tee-Gee, as I guess the company is pronounced, I said Tig-Ee.

This causes her to laugh and say, “It’s Tee-Gee.You’re reading kid’s books all the time so you’re all Tig-EE, like Tigger and Pooh. That’s so funny.”

Uh, excuse me? She might as well have asked me if I have “Congrats Class of 2008! Go Badgers!” written in window paint all over my mini van.

And for your information, we don’t have a mini van. (Yet.)

Mark keeps pictures of the girls on his phone so he can show them off to people at work. Since I’m always with Kate and Paige, I clearly need to put some pictures on my phone from when I was a business woman.

“Now in this shot I was signing a multi-million dollar contract with a client I brought in.”

“Here’s me at the Monday morning management meeting.”

“Oh and in this one I’m running through a spreadsheet, telling my team about our finance goals for the quarter.”

Shopping Frenzy

Used to be politics at the grocery store was about campaigning out front and kissing babies. These days it’s in the aisles, and can take the joy out of shopping faster than a checker can say, “Debit or credit?”

I gratefully vacated the house early this morning to allow our brigade of house cleaners ample space to do their thing. Kate was at school so Paigey and I headed for Berkeley Bowl. We were desperately lacking anything leafy, fresh, or in need of refrigeration. (Children probably can live off of mini peanut butter sandwich crackers, but I’d rather not test that concept out on my kid.)

Despite some of the agro-hippie experiences I’ve had at Berkeley Bowl, it’s an undeniable bastion of produce, ethnic foods, groovy herbs, tinctures, green cleaning products, organic cosmetics and gourmet cheeses, micro-brews, seaweed, bulk quinoa, grass-fed meats, artisan yogurts–you-name-it. Plus you can get a coffee and a decent-tasting vegan pastry to quell your morning hungries as you shop. Even with its hassle factor, Berkeley Bowl makes you thank your stars that you live in a small rental house where the public schools suck versus anywhere else in North America.

Was a time when you had a list and just toodled along and picked up what you needed, right? Any brand issues were likely settled by choosing whatever it was your mom used, or getting what’s on sale. But these days, for me, it just ain’t that easy. Well, at least today it wasn’t.

My first quandary was in my apple purchase. I was able to cut through the 3,271 varieties of apples Berkeley Bowl carries in order to get Fuji apples, which Kate–child of foodies that she is–requests by name. But side-by-side are the bins of organic and non-organic Fuji apples.

Normally I’d just get organic, but I happened to randomly read the little sticker on them and saw they were from Chile. So, not local. The traditionally grown apples were from Washington state. Close by, and they actually looked much fresher and tastier than the organic ones. The organic ones were pale and starting to feel slightly spongey. I figured they were picked long  enough ago for them to make the long voyage from Chile all the way to Berkeley. You could actually see their jet lag.

I’ve got this nifty wallet-sized card that tells me what produce it’s okay to buy traditionally-grown–since they don’t require lots of pesticides–and what you should buy organic. Bananas, for instance, you don’t have to buy organic. Maybe ’cause-a the thick peel?! Strawberries on the other hand you should always buy organic. I think they’re mostly water and slurp up all those chemicals like sponges. I mean, don’t take my word for any of this. These are all the stories that I think I’ve maybe heard but likely just made up in my head.

Of course, the handy wallet-sized thing lives unhandily on our fridge, not in my wallet. It’s been there since my days of wanting the nanny to use it on her rare outings to the store for us. (That is, when we had a nanny.) Some day when I’m good and ready I’ll move it to my wallet where it can be of some use.

Anyway, Apple Crisis 2008 included the remembrance that apples require lots of pesticides. Though I countered that with the consideration that most farmers these days must be trying to keep chemical use down. And in Washington state of all places they’re likely to use groovy apple-growin’ practices, right? Maybe their farm is just barely under the limit for being qualified for organic status. (Yes, I truly had this thought.) Maybe I’m losing my mind by over-thinking this miniscule purchase. Wait, yes. I’m sure I am.

Before I was arrested for loitering in the apple aisle, I ended up getting the limp Chilean organic apples.

Then I was on to acquire the 24 other items on my list…

Pineapples sent me into another tailspin. They truly have five varieties and I couldn’t tell what properties constitute a good pineapple. I know pulling the center leaves out easily means it’s ripe, but many of them seemed over-ripe. I tried to remember if I needed these to be organic and decided I didn’t. The Del Monte pineapples looked decent, but I recently saw some 60 Minutes episode about how some of the big fruit companies are supporting large rebel factions by paying them off to let them do business in third-world countries. Or something like that.

I don’t even remember what kind of pineapple I got. I think I got one from Costa Rica, since I’d like to go there some day. May God forgive me if in buying it I’ve helped put a new machine gun in the hands of an eight-year old guerilla warrior. Hopefully it’ll at least be a good sweet pineapple

So as not to be more terrifically boring than I already am–or to incite fear in the hearts of my loved one that I’ve finally truly lost it–I’ll spare you a detailed run-down of all the other items I purchased. I’m sure there are some much better blogs that recount grocery lists. But I do have to mention my bread-buying efforts.

A gal wants a nice sliced sourdough, right? What can be so hard? I picked up a brand I think I’ve bought before. Then I notice that it wasn’t called Santa Cruz Bakery, but San Luis Bakery–though in a similar bluff-the-buyer font. I hate when companies try to rook you into buying their wannabe brands. (Please note that “wannabe” is in my blog software’s dictionary because it doesn’t have a squiggly line under it to indicate it’s misspelled. How weird is that?)

Anyway, I picked up another loaf from a place called something like El Faro Santa Cruz Bakery, which had a little amateurish sketch of a moustachioed baker in front of a wood hearth. Looked totally small-time hand-crafted, yadda yadda. But when I turned it over it turns out their attempts to pimp their bread as artisan are totally bogus. It’s made by Sara Lee! Out of St. Louis!

So then I assumed the other one, the San Luis Sourdough, must be made in California in San Luis Obispo. Nope. Also from St. Louis. And another Sara Lee product!

Is Sara Lee using the San Luis brand to drive discerning shoppers to their other more artisany looking brand? Am I becoming a paranoid conspiracy theorist? Does Sara Lee own my soul? Probably, but it’d take a lot of fine print reading to figure it out. And as far as I can tell, I’m nowhere near the St. Louis arch. I don’t think.

I mean, Avon owns Keihl’s and Ford owns Volvo. Weirder things have happened.

At any rate, I guess where this now-kinda-embarrassed-to-have-to-have-shared-it experience got me is the realization it’d be so much easier to shop at Wal-Mart and buy Lunchables and Ding Dongs for my family instead of reading labels to scour out any trace of dairy or soy, or concerning myself with organizations that are decimating rain forests while their executives lunch on spotted owl. (Potential solution?: Move to St. Louis.)

I mean, I swear I’m not even that political. Have I just been living in California too long? (Case in point, yesterday when I asked Kate if she’d like to go to the zoo with her friend Bowen she said, “Yeah! That’d be awesome!” Perhaps I should read the proverbial writing on the wall…) What I want to know is how does someone who really is clued into all this–not just straining to remember what their absent wallet-sized card tells them to do–manage to shop? It’s paralyzing!

With my grocery adventure behind me I went to the brilliantly named maternity and baby store Waddle and Swaddle, in search of some swaddling blankets that Paige would not spontaneously combust in when we’re in the summer swampland of the East Coast. A cute pair of tights I was looking at for Kate proclaimed they were “made with love in China.”

It made me think of a blurb I heard on NPR recently: There’s a factory in China that produces “Free Tibet” bumper stickers. Fucked up, but hilarious,
no?

Through my sister’s films I know enough about the human rights injustices the Chinese have dealt the Tibetans. Enough to make me sometimes kinda think about maybe not buying things that are made in China. It’s rate, but I sometimes do think of it. But something about the “made with love” thing was a bit much for me. It felt like an attempt at a work-around to reel you in. ‘Made by Nazis with love.’ Alas, no cute tights for Katie. (Though I guess if I really liked them I probably would’ve gotten them. See? My political intentions are flexible.)

After my two forays into local stores left me feeling like the last Californian who thinks about this stuff while shopping but still shaves her armpits, I made my way to Target, hoping the Rosie’s organic free range chicken in the trunk wasn’t breeding free range bacteria in the unusually hot weather.

Target provided a much-needed familiar consumer palate-cleanser. (When Paige and I miss a week of shopping at Target, the folks there nearly call to check on us that we’re alright.) The huge red doors flew open to greet us, and we rolled happily into our air conditioned, well-lit home away from home. Where, no doubt, after 20 minutes I likely managed to undo any of the thoughtful consumer shopping I’d spent the previous two hours wrangling with.

Ah well. Baby steps, right?

Night #5: What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger–Right?

Friday night, for my final night of the five-nights-o’-cooking challenge (TM) we ate the galumpki  I attempted to serve on Thursday after an unsuccessful attempt at blindly setting my broken crock pot. And at some point while I was reheating it (after it had also cooked for a couple extra hours in the crock pot on Thursday) Mark expressed some concern over “food safety.” As in, if it hadn’t fully cooked in the several-hour process, perhaps what was happening instead was bacteria was sprouting, explosively procreating in large cabbage-and-tomato-soup-based mushroom clouds of funk.

I shrugged it off. “Nah, I think it’s fine.”

And then I served it to two of the people I love most in this world.

It wasn’t until 3AM that, despite not feeling sick at all from the food, I developed a stomach ache over the thought that I could have recklessly caused serious harm to my family. But before my instinct to drag Mark and Kate out of bed and bring them to the hospital for voluntary stomach-pumping (or would that be Stomach Pumping by Proxy?), I fell back asleep and it turned out that everyone woke up alive in the morning (phew!) and as far as I know devoid of even any poo-related maladies.

So as it turns out, this whole getting dinner on the table for the family every evening thing has greater ramifications than just Mark not having to do it, and having the family all eat together. Talk about pressure.

This explains why growing up our mother’s overcooked the shit out of most everything they served us. Turns out they were trying to not kill us.

For my part, instead of letting fear of poisoning everyone interfere with ever making another meal, I should probably just not use the crock pot until I get it fixed.

The epilogue to my 5-Dinners-In-A-Row Challenge: I may have not managed to truly prepare five separate meals (due to failed Thursday and Friday’s Galumpki Redux), but I did come to the realization that  all it took for June Cleaver to have a hot meal on the table every night was some planning, some late-afternoon “Mama’s cookin’ and can’t braid the doll’s hair now”-type child neglect, and rebuffing the concept of gourmet for basic, balanced nutritious food. Which is to say, it’s doable.

Heck, at the end of it all I heard Kate utter the words, “I like galumpki!” That right there is incentive enough to not raise a child on chicken tenders alone.

But anyway, all this food stuff isn’t really all that’s been bouncing around in my psyche. What I’m really excited about is that His Holiness David Sedaris has a new book out. This generates in me the excitement that collectively all the fans of the Harry Potter books have ever felt about any of those books coming out. (And by “coming out” I don’t mean San Francisco-style coming out… I always feel like I need to make that clear.)

Despite my rabid enthusiasm I have yet to own this new book. So I’m going to hie me to the bookstore right now, seeing as Mark is home to hold down the sleepin’-kid fort. Yee-ha!

Failure!

Everyone whose ever cooked has a good failed meal story, right?

For my 94-year-old Godmother, Mimi–an amazing Italian cook who in her prime thought nothing of devoting days to preparing mouth-watering multi-course meals–it was the Thanksgiving turkey that never cooked. I think it happened back in the Seventies some time, but she’s still working through the horror of it all–a houseful of people and no matter how long she stalled everyone, the damn bird was still frozen in the middle.

Well, I don’t have 70-odd years of cooking to draw from, but tonight’s dinner was kind of a turkey for me. Apparently I was not able to adequately discern the proper slow cooker setting for galumpki cooking. (You’d think they’d just have a dial you turn towards “Galumpki.”) I lugged that damn huge hot and awkward (oh, and heavy) crock pot to Ellen’s, only for her to cut into one to reveal soft red meat. But here’s the thing. We love these little cabbage rolls so damn much, she and Maia each ate their way through one as we discussed the situation and came to grips with the fact that they were in fact raw.

Then there was some experimentation with the microwave to see if we could speedily finish the work that the slow cooker failed to do. But even after several blasts the meat was still freakishly red. I insisted they stop. It was just too painful for me.

I must have had it on the Warm setting all day instead of Cook. Or perhaps it was the Sicken Your Family with Raw Meat setting. At any rate, this only validates my hunch that having a functional legible digital screen which indicates what the hell is happening inside that pot all day is really quite necessary.

Ellen helpfully offered up that she had ravioli she could cook. Alas, not for me, Non Dairy Queen that I am. So everyone else ate that and I had some pot stickers. And finally some delicious strawberry rhubarb pie made by young urban derelicts at Mission Pie.

It’s nearly 9PM and we’re back home where for some reason I’m giving the crock pot a second chance and have it back on. This time at what I guess is a different setting.

I hang my head in shame.

Nights 3 and 4: Polska Fiesta!

Come child. Touch the hem of my colorful striped dirndl skirt and I shall whisk you away to a land of Polish culinary delights! Come! Take hold of my hand or the cuff of my flowing peasant blouse, and let’s dance dance dance to the songs of Bobby Vinton, my long blond braids flying in the wind!

Okay so I’m not sure the dirndl skirt, peasant shirt and braids are really what those gals are rockin’ back in the old country, but I do think it’s what the Polish doll in my international dolls collection looked like. (Oh sure, my father tried to imbue his fervid obsession with collections onto me as a child. And if you don’t believe me come ’round on the next rainy day and I can show off not only my It’s a Small World-esque posse of dolls, but some old coins, stamps, and the business cards of Margaret Thatcher, Henry Winkler, and other long-deceased small-time Rhode Island dignitaries. I know, I know. Even more proof of my dazzling coolness that you knew nothing about.)

So, even though I was really wearing one of my two postpartum outfits yesterday (the shorts I think, not the jeans) picture me if you will dressed in the delightful garb of a Polish lass, cookin’ up some of the food of my people.

Our dinner last night:

• Kielbasa
• Sauerkraut
• Dairy-free mashed potatoes
• Mini carrots for Kate (I blew her mind mentioning they didn’t exist when Mark and I were kids)
• Red pepper for Kate (something she recently tasted and wanted to daringly try again)
• Sprite (Mark’s soda pairing)

Last night at 5:15PM I was still waiting at the pharmacy for Kate’s pink eye prescription to be filled. By the time we walked in the door it was just before 6PM, but I stepped up, people! I did not decide that gettin’ a hot meal on the table when my hubbie got home (at 6:15-ish) was not possible! Nooooo! I stood by that stove and made sparks fly–while poor Paigey sat in her carseat bucket in a saturated diaper and waiting patiently for me to get everything on the stove. Bless that little crusty baby.

Nothing terribly interesting to report on the success or failure of this meal. Mark seemed to like it but thought that mashed potatoes made with Rice Dream aren’t really up to par with those made with milk. And all I can say to that is, duh.

Since my sister Ellen and I had plans to get together at her house tonight, I was fearful my five-dinners-in-a-row would be in jeopardy. Instead I decided to make some galumpki–cabbage rolls stuffed with ground beef, pork, and rice, with Campbell’s tomato soup on top–to take over for dinner.

These are something my Mom used to make us. You eat them with excessive amounts of ketchup, and though they’re far from gourmet, in that weird way that some people actually like gefilte fish, Ellen and I adore galumpki. Every time I make them I jolt her into an intense taste and smell memory. (Similar to the smell “memory” your house gets after you’ve cooked cabbage in it all day.)

Speaking of slow cooking, the galumpki [Bruno family spelling] will be a bit of an experiment. Last time I made them I put them in this fancy crock pot we got from Williams Sonoma with a wedding present gift certificate. At that time the digital read out was starting to fail, but I was able to discern using educated guesses and my keen powers of telepathy what setting I was putting it on.

This morning I realized that in the few months it’s been resting in the basement the remaining functionality of the digital screen has gone to hell. So I pressed a few of the extraordinarily un-intuitive buttons on the thing, genuflected, and walked away hoping that some sort of cooking was taking place.

I can say that my house is starting to smell like the cabbagey-smelling hallway of an old boarding house. So I think I did it right. In a couple hours after Kate wakes up from her nap and I’ve managed to lug her, Paige, and the forty-pound steaming hot crock pot over to Ellen’s, I’ll know for sure.

Night #2: Le Menu

Okay so no gourmet feast tonight, but there were actually four children under the age of five here up until about a half hour before Mark got home. And I was the only person over age five.

• Spicy Tomato Burgers on Potato Buns
• Ore Ida Crinkle Cut French Fries
• Left Over Green Beans (Mark made these Sunday night)
• Left Over Orzo (Kate only–while waiting for her burger to cook)

Not to besmirch the merits of a burger, since a great burger is a great thing. But I feel the need to defend this dinner offering based on the fact that there are so many other things I could cook, but the damn dairy restriction seems to significantly whittle down my options. Just needed to make that disclaimer.

My round-up of tonight’s meal:

Prep stress level: Not bad considering at any moment toddlers could have been starting the curtains on fire in the other room.

Percentage of meal I did all by myself: Like last night 98%, since I asked Mark if he thought the burgers were cooked enough. (I needed to give them another 30 seconds.)

Orchestration of all elements: Good! I fretted a bit that the fries wouldn’t be ready with the burgers, but my project management skills must have somehow kicked in. I hit my deadlines, nailed my milestones, and took the critical path to getting everything on the table at once.

Taste: Mark rated it as “very good.” (Aw shucks.) He liked the little horseradish kick in the burgers, as did I, and said they had “excellent color.” I hadn’t even thought that was something the judges were looking at. Kate also seemed pleased with her un-spicy burger, and enjoyed making herself little sliders by sticking her cut-up meat between a bun she tore pieces off of. All this said, I should point out that neither Mark nor I touched the green beans that I reheated from the other night. I guess I don’t get points for trying to make a balanced meal if we eat an imbalanced one. The fact that they were leftovers made them more easy to ignore, I think. Plus Mark had a multi-course work lunch.

Familial groove from all eating together: Excellent! We sit there and talk about what we all did during the day just like the Cleavers! Just two nights into this new eating together routine–versus our previous one of feeding Kate, putting the kids to sleep, Mark cooking, us eating, me trying to pry myself off the couch to clean up but more often than not just falling asleep and Mark doing it even though he also cooked…. Wait, where am I? Let me put it this way: It’s 8:30PM now and instead of Mark and I just sitting down to eat, we’re already digesting! The kitchen is sparkling! And Mark is now using the living room rug as a work shop for a bunch of greasy bike parts. Uh, progress, right?

A solid dinner overall. But now watching Hillary Clinton speak on CNN is giving me indigestion. Oy.

Can She Do It?

Guess what? I made dinner tonight like a big girl!

It’s true. My dirty little secret is that Mark is our dinner-maker night after night. I know. I’m not working and there is really no excuse for this. Though the story that I have constructed around the situation is that “Mark likes to cook dinner” and “it helps him unwind after work” and “comparatively my food sucks.” The reality is that really only that last statement is consistently true.

After hearing me say “Mark likes the in-the-trenches daily dinner prep and I much prefer cooking for dinner parties (when I also don’t have children to tend to)”–hearing me say this perhaps a zillion times in different social situations where some small indication of our domestic set-up was revealed to someone–well, it’s really a wonder that I’m still here typing today and that Mark hasn’t strangled me.

I can’t believe it took him as long as it did to finally set the record straight over pillow talk one night and say, “Uh, I don’t always LOVE cooking dinner every night, you know. Sometimes I’d like to just come home and relax too. I mean, if you wanted to do it some time that would be great.”

At least, that’s what I think he said. I was too busy sticking my fingers in my ears and repeating “la la la la” loudly.

Sure one of my wedding vows was to always appreciate Mark’s dinner-cookin’. And I think I’ve upheld that, and without much effort or prodding. I do appreciate having a personal chef as I often refer to him. (My God, it’s a wonder I’m still alive.) I mean, my level of appreciation can’t rival my brother-in-law Roland’s who between bites nearly moans with grateful gastronomic delight. Me, I lick my fingertips, sop up gravy off my plate with my bread, and say at least once per meal how awesome the [INSERT ONE] [pork tenderloin with peach salsa] [pasta with homemade meat sauce] [chicken parm] [flank steak and baked potatoes] [chicken and corn chowder] [ziti bake] or myriad other meals are.

And he’s not only about dinner. At lunchtime Mark makes a world-class tuna salad, a mean grilled cheese (with tomato soup, bien sur), and other fabulous sandwiches, quesadillas and left-over reincarnations with a twist.

I won’t bore you with his mouth-watering breakfast and brunch offerings, mostly just because I don’t want to run the risk of someone breaking into our house to steal him. Suffice it to say his skills in the kitchen have little to no boundaries.

So last night, after preparing another knock-out meal for childhood friend Sydney and hubbie Tere, we cleaned up, hung out, went to bed, and halfway through the night when Paige woke up to nurse Mark could not manage to get back to sleep. Just kinda tossed and turned and watched the hours on the clock tick by until of course he fell fast asleep mere minutes before needing to wake up.

Inspired by his measly 4-hours of shut-eye, I went to the grocery store with a fierce determination to do right by my man and to wrangle us up some dinner tonight.

For the record, it’s not that I can’t cook. I mean, I used to have a somewhat limited but solid repertoire. But somewhere between us dating, moving in together, and getting hitched those skills, well, atrophied. I can bake with the best of them, but always found savory foods more challenging. First there’s timing everything to finish all at once, then there’s the nasty handling raw chicken or having your fingertips smell like garlic the next day. (I’m such a princess.)

And frankly I just don’t seem to have the basics of seasoning and discerning meat done-ness down pat. I’m a dyed in the wool recipe follower, which is why the precision of baking suits me to a T. To me hearing that you cook something “until it’s done” and not for, say, 11 minutes, is arcane and maddening. My brain doesn’t understand what to do with that directive, so before it short circuits I tend to flee and ask Mark to take over.

And that did happen a little bit tonight too, but I think I still get 98% credit for cooking this:

• Roasted chicken
• Oven roasted potatoes and carrots
• Corn on the cob
• Sippy cup of milk or beer (age dependent)

Not bad, eh? And the thing was, it WASN’T bad! Mark complimented me on it, though at this rate he’s likely choking down raw chicken just to reinforce this behavior in me.

Kate even said twice, “Thanks for cooking this, Mama!” (Though maybe it was Mark throwing his voice.) She asked for more chicken a few times too, but did turn her nose at the roasted carrots in lieu of “crunchy baby carrots.” The roasted carrots had “brown on them.”

At any rate, the culinary merit of the meal aside, the whole dinner experience was, as Mark and I would say, exceedingly pleasant. I gave Kate a refresher course on table-setting, served everything up hot not long after Mark got home, and we all talked about our days like a nice little nuclear family as we ate. For her part, Paige happily did judo kicks in her bouncy seat while waiting for my breasts to be freed up for her dining pleasure.

So here’s the thing. Even if I can’t dice mirepoix in perfectly symmetrical micro cubes like Mark, and wouldn’t likely take on anything that required mirepoix in the first place, I decided tonight I want to humbly try to bang out some dinners around here. Five nights in a row of me-cooked dinners is my self-imposed challenge. At the end of the week I’ll either determine that I can contribute more regularly to our dinner-makin’, take it over altogether (not my hypothesis), or just really amp up on my appreciation of all Mark’s hard work.

No promises of gastronomic rapture. The goal is to make some healthy balanced meals that both Mark and Kate would be willing to eat. And that don’t use Hamburger Helper.

Can I do it? Tune in to hear tomorrow’s menu, and Mark and Kate’s review.

Sleep Walking at Target

So Paigey is starting to laugh! I discovered this the other day when I was doing the old baby routine of big inhale followed by lunge for the cheek or neck and kiss kiss kiss. That one evidently just slays her.

Her laugh is this kind of slow staccato haaa-haaa-haaa. Hopefully it’ll soften and lighten up a bit over time so she doesn’t suffer some horrible Seinfeldian fate. (“So I was out with this really attractive woman the other night. We’re having this great conversation over dinner, but then I said something funny and…”)

Anyway, yesterday while peppering her with a skillion Obsessive Maternal Cheek Kisses and trying to elicit more laughs from her I realized that her cheeks were as sweet and soft as–as normal baby cheeks! No dry leathery skin! No stinky yeast funk rising up from her neck! No scratch scabs criss-crossing her face! All this and no zits too!

Woo hoo! The I-can’t-eat-anything-I-want-to diet seems to be paying off. Even tonight as we were sitting on the couch in the sweet post-kid-bedtime lull, Mark said, “So it’s kind of like Paige is finally our soft sweet baby.”

I’m thrilled. And of course, now I want to eat her.

Though Miss Sweet Cheeks did get me up a couple times last night. Enough to leave me feeling somewhat zombie-like this morning as I showered, dressed and fed her, and bustled Kate off to school (usually Mark’s gig, but he had his every-decade-or-so dentist appointment today).

Usually when Kate goes to school it’s like I’m playing Beat the Clock to see how much I can cram into five toddler-free hours. Achiever that I am, what I can accomplish is generally quite impressive. Though not today.

Every American mother worth her weight in Merona clothing certainly starts most errand outings at Target. Of course half the fun of Targe-ay has historically been my latte stop at the embedded Starbucks. Alas, this morning I tried to satisfy myself with one of their fairly crummy blueberry muffins, with hopes that they aren’t made with any butter. Somehow it didn’t give me the kick I was needing.

At one point after I’d ticked all the things I needed off my list, and after Paige had fallen asleep in the shopping cart, I realized that for some Godforsaken amount of time I’d just been kind of sleepwalking around the store–leaning into the shopping cart like it was some kind of walker and mindlessly making my way up and down the aisles. I have no idea how long I’d been doing this, but when it dawned on my that I should “wake up” and get out of the store I could barely shake myself into action. Getting to the check-out area seemed an epic moon walk away. But as I looked around at the other shopping Mamas I realized I wasn’t alone.

How many other women find themselves wandering the aisles aimlessly at Target, basking in the upbeat merchandising, browsing anonymously in a low-impact with slight feeling-of-accomplishment way? It’s like airplane sleeping–you’re kinda asleep but you can still hear the flight attendants walking through the plane asking everyone, “Pasta or chicken? Pasta or chicken?” 

I’m telling you women like me are EVERYWHERE. Targets around the country are packed with us, haplessly sleep walking until the older kid needs to get picked up from school, and racking up couple-hundred-dollar tabs for non-essential items. If we all didn’t come by our exhaustion honestly and I didn’t love the company as ardently as I do, I’d think Target was pumping some kinda mind-control chemical out through the air ducts.

Outside the store–once I finally swam through a Jello-like haze to get there–I stopped at the nursery to look for a plant for the great one-dollar plant stand I got at a yard sale this weekend. (Plant stand = $1, Fern = $20. Bargain? You decide.)

A woman around my age and her mother walked past me. Glancing down at my cart I heard the older woman say, “Oh look at that fern. Do you remember when I was trying to grow those?”

For some reason it totally reminded me of my mother. She was an avid gardener and I don’t remember if she went through a fern-growing phase, but it’s the kind of thing I could just picture her saying. “Oh those gerananiums. I tried and tried to grow them in that side garden we had.”

The thought came at me in that gut-punching kind of way that you never expect. It’s like when Mother’s Day approaches and you gear yourself up for being all sad that your mother’s not alive and then a few days later you realize that you never even had a Big Sad Moment that day. Then you hear some mom talking to her daughter about her fern-growin’ and you want to sit on the floor at the Target nursery and cry.

There must be something in the air around here–or maybe it’s my mother herself–but Kate has gotten on this kick of saying “I’m calling your Mama,” whenever I unwittingly leave one of the phones in her reach. “What you Mama’s name again?” she’ll ask. “Vicki? I’m calling Vicki. Hello Kristen’s Mama! This is Kate! How are you? Okay, you talk to my Mama now.” Then she hands the phone to me.

The first time this happened Mark was listening from the kitchen and walked into Paige’s room where Kate and I were. His face was all red and covered with tears. Oddly, I wasn’t crying. I was too busy thinking about what I’d say if I really could talk to my mother on the phone. In Kate’s game I’ve said something like, “Hi Mom. I’m here with Kate and Paige and we’re thinking about you!” Then Kate is off busying herself with another toy, or grabs the phone back and starts dialing Tokyo.

The whole thing also has me wondering why Kate asks me about my mother, but hasn’t ever thought to ask where she is, or why she hasn’t met her. Of course I’m avoiding telling her about death until she’s at least 25.

Yesterday when we were in the park having a PB&J picnic, a mother was coercing her kids to get in their stroller. “Come on, Lucy, we have to go home! Grandma’s coming over for lunch.” How jealous-making is that? First off their grandma is alive, secondly she lives close enough to come over for lunch.

It’s not fair. I miss my Mama.

Hi Mom. I have two beautiful daughters now, Kate and Paige. I know you would just love them. Paigey’s had a skin thing but it’s so much better now. And Kate loves school and is such a good big sister. And even though we’re sometimes tired or impatient I think Mark and I are doing a pretty good job with them. And I really really really wish you could come over for lunch some day.

Sweet Solitude

When I was an editorial slave at a health magazine in New York ages and ages ago probably long before you were even born, I got to go on a couple amazing press junkets. One was a cruise through the Caribbean.

Cunard was trying to appeal to a younger demographic by billing the typical cruise–gambling, midnight gut-busting all-you-can-hork buffets, and oldsters bobbing in the pool like some scene from Cocoon–as some sporty excursion-based boat trip with a healthy menu and lots of other young active folks who can stay up late without having to modulate their pacemakers.

So here we were–about a dozen health writers in our twenties, mostly from New York–all feeling very cynical that the cruise would offer anything than overcooked food drowned in cream sauces (it didn’t) and all very smug that, starving journalists that we were, we were able to cruise around the Caribbean eating overcooked food drowned in cream sauces for free.

We flew from New York to Florida and then to Peurto Rico where the cruise ship was docked. Rather where she was docked. (I love any excuse to call a boat “she,” don’t you?) In Puerto Rico we had some time to kill so the turbo-chipper PR gal who was chaperoning us in a desperate attempt to ensure we were ga-ga over all things Cunard, took us to a little outdoor bar on the beach.

It was warm. It was sunny. There was no traffic, towering concrete buildings, burnt peanut smells from sidewalk vendors, or homeless men sleeping in the gutter. It was quiet, except for some tropically music playing on some crappy stereo. Manhattan and all its smells, sounds and stresses was worlds away.

But as they say, you can take the New Yorker out of New York, but you can’t–well, you know the saying.

Let’s just say that the service at this little cantina wasn’t exactly snappy. And although everything about this setting would have any other mortal content–happy even–our group was collectively busting a neck vein with stress. “Where the hell are our drinks?” one guy groused. “What in fuck’s name happened to our waiter?” someone else demanded. “This is totally unacceptable. They’ve got to be kidding if they expect a tip after this.” (I happen to have committed these actual comments to memory…)

I was right along there with everyone. Well, I think I was probably willing to give the waiter a tip, but anyway it was the first time I realized that it takes at least a few days for a vacationing New Yorker to decompress enough to even realize they aren’t in their office any more. I think for some people it takes longer. (Those men you see lying on the beach screaming, “Buy! Sell!” into the waves? New Yorkers.)

Once they do relax, let’s just say how one defines “relax” certainly varies. The state of relaxation some New Yorkers eventually attain sipping umbrella drinks under a palapa, may well put, say, a Californian, into cardiac arrest.

I have a friend whose family lives in Bermuda. You’d piss your pants laughing to hear him talk about what it’s like getting off a plane from New York and into a car there, where the speed limit is 25 MPH. For him it was the cruelest form of torture.

At any rate, I’m thinking about all this as I sit on our front porch with an iced tea and a baggy full of homemade oatmeal chocolate chip cookies. It’s in the high 70′s today and there’s a slight breeze causing my new hanging plants to waft gracefully and send out a hit of jasmine-smell every once and a while. And aside from the intermittent crackling of the baby monitor, it’s pretty quiet here. Especially because both the girls are asleep.

I should put that in italics: Both the girls are asleep.

Yes, without having to invest in the Pottery Barn Kids monogrammed kelly green leather restraint straps, it appears that Kate is actually taking a nap. (This, if you can tell, hasn’t been happening very consistently despite all my desperate entreaties to The Man Upstairs.)

This lovely calm and aloneness is strange. I’m so unaccustomed to it I need some time to settle into it. I spend the first few minutes walking around in circles like a dog trying to find the right place to lie down. Something so rare, so special, must be appreciated and savored to the fullest extent.

But how?

After wracking my brain to determine what I need to do–no wait, what I want to do with this time–the realization washes over me like a warm gulp of bourbon.

I’m going to sit here with my feet propped up on the wicker chair, stare out across the porch, and do absolutely nothing.

And….begin!

Bad Mood Mother’s Day

Let’s just say that yesterday I wasn’t one of those Mamas who was at brunch serenely residing over perfectly behaved children in a state of maternal bliss. Mind you, it wasn’t anything that anyone did per se. We had a lovely day planned and took the ferry to SF and ate a delicious lunch at The Slanted Door.

I think with my birthday the day before and the expectation of a double-billed weekend of an all-about-me Saturday followed by an all-about-me Sunday, somewhere along the line I somehow lost steam. Imagine! It must be my newly advanced age… And, sure, maybe there was a bit of the it’s-my-party-and-I’ll-cry-if-I-want-to syndrome (something I’d hoped I’d outgrown after the weeping by the clothesline incident on my 6th birthday).

Whatever the reason, ooh-wee! I was unsatisfied, dehydrated, impatient, and willing to sell Kate on eBay for five cents. Thankfully I can’t get online with my cell phone.

Hindsight being 20/20, I realize now what I really needed to do was be curled up alone in bed with an IV drip of something renewing. It’s always a struggle deciding whether to spend Mother’s Day with the family or miles and miles away from them. And I think the solution is one part family time, one part alone time, and one part “something renewing.” You know, like whatever Keith Richards uses to reinvigorate himself.
 
I had a brief emotional upswing in the afternoon after the whole family managed to simultaneously nap, but it wasn’t until I got up with Paige at 12:30AM that I started thinking happy thoughts about Mother’s Day–how kinda weird and cool it is that it’s become a holiday that’s celebrated by my contemporaries now. It’s like after all those years as an underclassman, we’re finally the seniors. Woot!

So as it sometimes happens when I get up with Paige, I spend the whole time desperate to crawl back in bed to sleep, but when I get there I find that I’m wide awake. So I started thinking of all my Mama friends–quite a long list of them at this juncture in life–and how all of them really are rocking hard as moms in all different kinds of ways.

So here’s a shout-out to you gals. Toss your breast pads in the air like the hat in the opening sequence of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, and take a long deep bow for an exhausting, harrowing, heart-warming, and hilarious job well done.

To Julie, Gianni and Tea’s mom, who realized what her family needed was (sniff!) no longer in SF, and like a protective Mama bear whose instincts are keen, moved the clan to a new family-fabulous life in Boulder. Some moms get practical short haircuts when they have kids, but Julie keeps it real by dying her hair bright red and being more likely to be mistaken for a rock star than a mom who brings home the bacon, wipes snotty noses, and writes a brilliant and funny blog.

To Megan, Mama of the delightful Miss Ella B and twins Kate and Wes. Twins who she not only gestated (which alone was an act of staggering bodily strength and heroism) but who she’s raising with incredible patience, love, and enviable organization, oftentimes solo due to a hard-workin’ hubbie. May the gods send you endless blessings for each diaper you’ve ever changed, Megan! You are a wonder, even when you’re way too tired to realize it yourself.

To Story, my homie from RI who is bringin’ up two male Savages–that being their last name. It’s an ironic name since these boys will no doubt be the ones you want your daughter to hang out with in college–the ones you hope she’ll be smart enough to date since they’ll not only be well-mannered and have hearts of gold, but they’ll be hot and kick-ass snowboarders.

To Sacha, mother of fearless Owen and future supermodel Ellie, who manages to make motherhood look like an effortless task on an endless To Do list. These children will never comprehend why other parents don’t consistently throw perfectly-appointed theme parties with clever give-away gifts and cupcakes so good the adults must resist wrestling them from the hands of children.

Speaking of hostesses, Shelley, mother of three beautiful kids who The Gap should be commissioning to model–has never once had her title of World’s Greatest Cook and Impromptu Hostess jeopardized with the birth of each successive child. (Don’t most other moms of three serve Tombstone Pizzas four nights a week and have a dinner party, say, once every three years?) May we always be able to drop in for dinner on a Tuesday night to see that you’ve made the recent Cook’s Illustrated recipe for Shrimp Fra Diablo and an apple pie, and have plenty to happily share. We are truly not worthy, yet we tuck our napkins under our chins with wholehearted amazement and appreciation.

And to Mary, my new friend and mother of the gorgeous doe-eyed sweeties Will and Skylar, who has taken sleep deprivation to an art form nearly as formidable as her photography. My wish for you is that the Sand Man not only pays you a visit, but moves in as an au pair, forever at your disposal. For each wakeless hour in which you should be in a deep REM cycle, may you someday bask lazily in the sun at the vast Italian villa your children eventually buy you.

Oh, there are so many other Mamas whose incredible accomplishments and myriad mundane daily duties I wish to salute…

Jennifer, the do-it-all working stay-at-home mom who doesn’t let the fact that brewing daily adventures takes time and energy stop her from doing it anyway.

Lisa who wrangles two big-brown-eyed beauties, has taken on some godforsaken tech consulting project that she’s effectively teaching herself how to do as she goes, and through it all is a devout reader of this blog!

And there’s Brooke, my neighbor whose mothering I’ve really just witnessed from intermittent sidewalk exchanges but from what I can tell has managed to raise two adult sons who are polite and sweet and who–from the looks of it over here across the street anyways–all seem to enjoy spending time together. (Mental note to interrogate her to determine how she did it.)

Oh, and Lori. Lori! Let’s not forget my sister-in-law who seems to be a made-for-the-job natural, and thank goodness as she often holds down the fort with Gavin and Olivia when her husband is out for days–sometimes weeks–Coast Guarding. All that and she still manages to paint every room in her house and make the world’s best homemade mac and cheese.

There are countless other Miracle Mamas who spring to mind who I’d love to mention–my sister Marie, for instance, who by now is no doubt washing the entire freshman class at Brown’s laundry–but if I enumerate each one and try to pay them justice I won’t have time to replant the flowerbed annuals, have a hot meal on the table when Mark gets home, wax my armpits, or finish sewing all the kids clothes…

So, in the imperfect but well-meaning way that many mothers take it all on, I salute you all, Mamas! Like some Oscar nominee I humbly declare that, shucks, it’s an honor to just be in your ranks. Happy belated Mother’s Day to you! Keep up the good work women, and here’s to hoping you didn’t have your grumpy on quite as much as I did yesterday.

xoxo,
kristen